


Prescilla

by OctaviaPeverell



Category: Death Note
Genre: Drama
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-11
Updated: 2010-09-11
Packaged: 2017-10-11 15:58:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 619
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/114116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OctaviaPeverell/pseuds/OctaviaPeverell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Women have needs too, and Misa is no exception. If only she didn't feel so dirty afterwards.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Prescilla

Blonde hair is splayed across the blackness of the sofa, her cheeks pink and shiny with sweat as her body falls from the climax into an area of shame, self-hate and depression. She is by herself, imagining again, hoping again, wishing again and again and again. She bites her lip, staring at the ceiling, tears threatening to squeeze through the corner of her eyes as she allows a low angry scream to rattle her throat, thrusting her head back against the cushion before pushing herself off, the wetness still there between her legs, still sticky on her fingers.

The water heater has been on all evening for Light, waiting for him to come home from wherever he was.

The food is cold on the table, as is the tea, which she boiled to perfection two hours ago. He isn't coming home tonight. And she thought that after an entire week of work, she'd finally be able to see him.

No such luck.

No such liberty.

No joy, no pleasure, no love.

As the hot water cascades down her back, Misa closes her eyes, imagining the filth on her, imagining her own sin, imagining how dirty she must be.

And then she is scrubbing herself – Light wouldn't want a dirty girl – her hand – that hand – and then her abdomen, trying to get the imaginary stink off her, trying to be pure again. She isn't pure. She's done this too many times to be pure anymore.

That blonde little image of perfection is cracked, so tiny that it's almost invisible. The make up is caked now, two days old and her lipstick has just been layered on to give the illusion of solidity, of luxury. Underneath her bonnet, her hair hasn't been brushed.

She's beyond any help, beyond perfection.

The worst part is that she imagines him there while she does it, she imagines it is him giving her all that pleasure, all that deliciousness that courses through her body, all that heaving and breathing and those soft, kitten cries.

The disgust she feels afterwards is in the opposite end of the spectrum as leaves of her pride fall away, littering the ground before being stepped on by her very own feet, crushed and dry and not there anymore.

No amount of soap and water can clear the dirt from her. Sometimes she thinks it would be better if she didn't have that accursed core that defined her as female.

Female: the word was tyranny.

She was not worth anything anymore. Nothing, no one, nowhere, not here.

She is past help.

She is past hope of sanctity.

And she can't stop because maybe it's the only thing that keeps her hopeful, the only thing that might whisper in her ear late at night, the only thing that will bring Light to her in the darkness of their room where he'll hold her and pull her inside out and have her begging for more and crying because finally he sees her as a woman, because finally he'll use her the way a woman is meant to be used, finally he'll love her the way a woman is supposed to be loved and touched and held and kissed.

She knows she's a woman.

Past the shame, past the dishonour, past the disgust and the filth, she's still a woman.

Misa cries as she begins again, underneath the shower, one hand and the side of her face pressed up against the cooler tiled walls, steam invading her lungs as her breaths become more laboured, her arm already aching from the constant movement.

It's not the real thing.

It will never feel like the real thing.

But the images of Light are all she has.


End file.
